


Varius

by theorchardofbones



Series: In the Shadow of the Bull [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caesar's Legion, Gen, Legion!Maxson, Prequel, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-08 06:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11640507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Before Arthur Maxson was ever captured by Caesar's Legion, he had a friend — a young boy who stayed by his side through thick and thin.In the face of the cruelty and hardship they would endure at the hands of their Legion captors, their bond would only grow stronger.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a prequel to [In the Shadow of the Bull](archiveofourown.org/works/10597065/chapters/23426619): Arthur's origin story, as much as Varius's, as seen through Varius's eyes.

Darkness; silence.

And then, slowly, a light forms — tiny and feeble at first, growing and growing until it’s blinding.

The sound comes next, a terrible ringing that pierces, that consumes.

Varius lies there unmoving, a bundle of nerve endings screaming out in agony.

Around him, the world comes into focus. A brilliant blue sky spans out far above, the glare of the low winter sun setting the birds in silhouette as they circle overhead.

Circling birds — vultures.

Death.

He can turn his head just enough to look beside him, to see a young man’s face staring back, unblinking. His skin has a deathly pallor, waxen and cold. The blood that once leaked from a hole in his forehead is black now, hours old.

He doesn’t remember much more than flashes — laser fire and pain, getting swept away from Arthur in the sea of warring bodies, the vertibirds, a soldier in power armor unlike those he had seen before. He remembers fighting alongside two tribals, a man and a woman, as reinforcements had poured in from the fleet of vertibirds to the south.

Adrenaline must have kept him going, flooding his veins and willing him to keep fighting. He remembers the slashes of his machete getting progressively sloppier, missing the target more and more with each strike; remembers lunging to try to impale his opponent in the belly only to fall to his knees instead.

When the miniguns had begun to tear through the ranks of their army, he had thought it was the end; thought he had died fighting valiantly for Caesar, and for Mars.

But now he’s here: eyes open, lungs rattling with each breath, throat so dry he couldn’t muster more than a croak if he tried.

Water. Every fiber of him cries for it, every last cell.

He tries to pull himself upright but pain flashes through him, white-hot. He feels it in his gut, and in his shoulder: throbbing, all-consuming. 

He manages to gain control of his hand and lifts it, trembling, to assess the extent of the damage. His fingers find clotted blood and the edge of a wound at his shoulder, skin too tender to thoroughly probe. He runs his hand down his chest, his torso, then finds the hole in his armor where a shot punched right through.

His fingers come away smelling sickly sweet. Decay.

He tries again to sit up, pressing his hand tightly down on the wound in his gut. This time he pushes himself up far enough to see the battlefield around him, and the sight knocks the breath from his lungs.

The buildings are scorched, razed to the ground in a last-ditch attempt to turn the tide of the battle in their favor. Bodies lie everywhere: legionaries, tribals and Brotherhood alike, blood-stained and still.

All at once the exertion is too much — the sun in his eyes, the thirst, the pain, the exhaustion.

He feels cold wash over him, and everything goes dark.


	2. Six

A brand new watch glinted at Caleb’s wrist, and he couldn’t wait to show it off.

Okay, so it wasn’t entirely new — it had weathered a couple of centuries, and the plastic was a little discolored, but the strap and the inner workings were all freshly fitted. _Good as new_ was about as close to the real thing as anybody was going to get.

He knew the other kids would be envious. It wasn’t every day that somebody got their hands on a working piece of technology from the old world — and one that you could wear, to boot.

Walking past the grown-ups in town, he made a show of rolling up his sleeve and checking the time on the digital readout on the watch. It did all sorts of other neat things, too, but he would save those for his friends.

It was June; heat had driven everyone from the schoolhouse and, as on many such days that summer, the other boys of the settlement could be found at the old playground. He could see some of the older kids there, gathered around the rusted, ancient jungle gym. 

Perfect: he might finally get the chance to impress them.

He strode over with his best swagger, head held high. He didn’t have a peacock’s plumage but he acted like he did. He had never seen a peacock, of course — he figured they were probably all dead — but he remembered illustrations he had seen in the nature book his teacher used.

It took a while for the others to notice him. He was always the scrawny, nerdy little kid with a nose that was kind of too big for his face. If they weren’t setting out to pick on him, it was probably because they had found something more interesting.

When he got to the jungle gym he finally saw what had captured their attention: in the center of it, hanging upside-down with his legs hooked over the bars, was a boy he had never seen before.

‘Bet you can’t hold your breath while you’re doing it,’ one of the boys said.

‘Bet you can’t say the alphabet,’ said another.

The stranger proved them each wrong, one after the other. When it seemed that nobody had any more demands to make of him, he reached upwards to grab the bars with his hands, then slipped his legs free before dropping to the ground.

When the group inevitably lost interest in the newcomer, they began to disband. It was only then that they finally noticed Caleb’s presence, and one of them — a thick set boy called Andy with a permanent scowl — announced his presence. 

‘Hey, look what the cat dragged in!’

Soon all eyes were on Caleb, and not for the reasons he had intended. He hurriedly pulled his sleeve down to cover his arm but the movement only drew more attention to him, and to what he hid beneath it. 

‘What's that you've got there?’ a taller boy said.

Jake Hollis — his parents were both paladins, so he had something by way of status amongst the other kids. He had his mother's blond hair, a shade or two lighter than Caleb’s, but his eyes were like his father's: a stoney, pure blue. 

‘Nothin’,’ Caleb mumbled. 

He wanted to turn and run while he had the chance, but he knew that showing your fear only made the enemy more bloodthirsty — that was someone he had read in the nature book, too. 

Instead, he tried to affect a cocky demeanor not unlike the one he had initially approached with. 

‘Who's the new kid?’ he demanded, pointing with his chin. 

Jake glanced back over at the jungle gym — the boy was climbing out of it by then, making quick work of the bars. 

‘Him?’ Jake said. ‘Who cares about him? Show us what you got.’

Before Caleb could do anything about it, Jake had grabbed his wrist and yanked up his sleeve. An audible sound of admiration went around the group as Jake pulled his wrist into the air to show everyone. 

‘Neat,’ Jake said. ‘What'd you do, steal it?’

Caleb had the word ‘yes’ out of his mouth before he could stop it; he figured this white lie was probably better than the truth. 

‘Who'd you take it from, then?’

Caleb looked up, eyes wide like a rabbit catching the scent of a human. He ran through all the names he could think of before reaching the end of the lost empty-handed. 

‘Uh, a trader,’ he stammered. It was as good a lie as any. 

‘A trader, huh?’ Jake echoed. He looked mildly impressed. ‘So did ya grab anything else? Anything good?’

Caleb tried to fabricate something believable, but Andy saved him the trouble. 

‘He's lying,’ Andy proudly stated. He looked Caleb from head to toe in disgust. ‘I heard his mom bartering with Holden for it. It's a _birthday_ gift.’

Jake still hadn't let go of Caleb’s wrist by then. He tried to shake free, but the boy maintained his hold. 

‘Birthday, huh?’ he said. ‘When is it?’

Caleb turned his gaze down at his toes, taking great interest in the scuffed material of his sneakers. He knew better than to tell anybody when his birthday was; it wasn't like they would come along anyway, and he knew they'd give him one of the infamous birthday beatings if they ever found out. 

Jake dug his fingers into his wrist, twisting it slightly. 

‘Hey,’ he said. His voice was lower now, dark and dangerous. ‘ _Look_ at me when I'm talking to you.’

Reluctantly, Caleb brought his eyes up to meet Jake’s.

‘I asked you a question.’

Caleb held his breath. He knew now that coming here had been a bad idea and he couldn’t take it back. Now it was a matter of minimizing damage, but he couldn’t think of a way to do it. He couldn’t refuse to answer, that was a certainty at least; that would only make Jake _real_ mad.

‘It— It’s Thursday.’

Triumph flared up in Jake’s face, and there was something in his eyes that Varius wouldn’t recognize as cruelty until years later.

‘That’s three days away,’ Jake said.

Grudgingly, Caleb nodded.

‘Well, well, well.’

Finally, Jake let go of Caleb’s wrist. The sensation of the blood rushing back in was as painful as the boy’s grip had been.

‘How’d your mom get the caps for a present like that?’ Jake asked, his eyes flickering towards the watch.

Caleb didn’t have a chance to respond before somebody else interjected: ‘On her back!’

It was the sort of talk boys their age shouldn’t have known — even the ones a few years older than Caleb by that stage. And yet they knew precisely what it meant, and it was enough to send a chorus of laughter around the group.

Like an animal at the maws of a predator, Caleb could do little more than back away; he stopped short when he bumped into somebody and was shoved forward again. Slowly, he realized that they had all gathered in a circle around him.

‘Y’know what?’ Jake said. He stepped closer to Caleb, poking fingers threateningly into his chest. ‘I think that watch’d look better on me. Don’t you?’

Dread sank into Caleb’s belly, cold and leaden. More than anything, he felt guilty that he had gone and ruined his birthday gift barely hours after getting it — after begging his mom to give it to him early. Maybe if he hadn’t been snooping in her room trying to find where she hid his presents, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

He took too long to answer; a moment later he felt hands grip him by the arms, pulling them behind his back. The next thing he knew his eyes were watering in pain as Jake landed a punch squarely in his stomach.

His body wanted to double over in pain, but the hands kept him upright.

Another punch, this one between the ribs, and suddenly he was gasping for a breath that never quite made it into his lungs. Soon those hands were gripping at his hair and yanking him backwards, until he fell into the churned-up mud with a jolt that went through his bones.

‘Hey!’

He registered it somewhere in the distance, above the battle-cries that had begun to sound around the ring of boys. When it came again it was closer, and through the mud that had splattered his face he could see the circle breaking. The new kid stepped through, and with little warning connected his fist with Jake’s face.

It was over moments after it had begun; Caleb could hear the sound of an adult’s voice cutting across the din and the pressure of the bodies around him abated, leaving him lying alone on the ground in the mud.

‘What the hell is going on?’

A hand grabbed his upper arm, strong and protective, and pulled him to his feet.

‘He started it,’ Jake yelled, pointing.

Caleb was pleased to see that blood streamed from his nose.

Several sets of eyes landed on the new boy; he didn’t have a scratch on him, but his dark hair was tousled from the struggle.

When Caleb met Jake’s eye, he realized what was happening. He wanted Caleb to lie; to pin the blame on the new kid. He knew that if he didn’t, the punishment would be so much worse than he had already endured.

‘Is that right?’ 

Caleb recognized the voice as Knight Milner without needing to look up; he was a kind man, but he took infractions more seriously than most. He knew that if he told the knight the truth, the punishment would be severe — and that he would just make things worse for himself.

He looked up at the new boy again, looked him squarely in his icy blue eyes. The boy looked back at him, unblinking.

Caleb swallowed.

‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘It was Jake. That kid was just trying to help.’

‘You fucking liar!’ Jake screamed, and suddenly he was tearing at Caleb before anybody could stop him.

Milner had them separated almost immediately, his hand gripping Jake’s shirt, and when he spoke again his voice was low but commanding. The boys around them couldn’t help but fall silent, instinctively leaning in to hear.

‘You ought to know better, Hollis,’ Milner said. ‘Your parents have done a lot in service to the Brotherhood, but don’t think for a second that that nets you any special treatment. You’ll be dealt with appropriately.’

He let go of Jake then, and turned to Caleb.

‘We need to get you looked at,’ he said. ‘Go to the infirmary.’

‘I’ll take him, sir.’

The new kid had stepped forward, seemingly oblivious to the death stares being thrown his way.

‘That so?’ Milner said. ‘Fine.’

The boy moved to accompany Caleb, but Milner put a hand out to stop him, laying it heavily on his shoulder.

‘You’re new here, right? Brat or civvie?’

Caleb recognized the question — it was a common one, to distinguish the children of enlisted soldiers from those of wastelanders who had been brought under the Brotherhood’s protection.

‘Brat, sir,’ the boy replied.

‘Name?’

‘Maxson, sir. Arthur.’

Milner looked thoughtful for a moment. Nobody moved.

‘Huh.’

He lifted his hand from the boy’s shoulder, nodding his head back in the direction of town.

‘Get going, then,’ the knight said, curt and matter-of-fact. He was probably thinking about the inevitable paperwork he’d have to fill in when he reported the incident.

They didn’t need to be asked twice; together, Caleb and Arthur turned toward the town and made their slow, painstaking way there, Caleb relying on the other boy’s support more than once.

As they walked together they didn’t say much, but Caleb knew he had made a friend.


	3. Eight

They had been walking so long that Caleb thought his legs were about to fall off. Whenever it seemed he just couldn’t make himself go any further, Arthur was there to nudge him along.

Any attempts at talking amongst the captures had been broken up swiftly and brutally by the men guarding them, but from time to time Arthur would lean in close to whisper words of reassurance in his ear.

‘We’ll get out of this,’ he said.

Caleb wanted to believe him.

There were others from their settlement — those who hadn’t died fighting, or been deemed too old or unfit for use — and there were faces he didn’t recognize, survivors from some other massacre.

He hadn’t seen his mother around; he didn’t know if she had made it.

Arthur’s hadn’t.

They had been put with all the other boys, some older with the first sprouting of stubble on their chins, others so young they had to be carried. It was seeing them — those little kids whose short legs could barely keep up with their slow, steady march — that made him decide to be brave. To be like Arthur.

They spent a week at a huge camp filled with more of the men dressed in their funny red dresses — Arthur had called them legionaries, members of Caesar’s Legion. They were fed meager meals and left to sleep on the ground with moth-eaten blankets. The slave collars fastened around their throats were never removed even for a minute, and their clunky, metallic forms served as a corporeal reminder of the future they had to look forward to.

From time to time, a legionary would come by their section of the camp and point out one or two of the boys who seemed to be struggling. They never heard from them again.

It seemed Caleb’s body had barely recovered from the hike when they were setting off anew, heading yet again in the direction of the setting sun. He remembered from school that the sun set in the west, but he couldn’t think where the legionaries could be taking them that was out that way.

‘The New California Republic is out west,’ Arthur told him one night on the road, voice hushed. ‘The Legion are at war with them.’

Caleb recognized the name of the Republic — he knew they were an enemy of the Brotherhood. He wondered why the Legion, at war with one of the Brotherhood’s enemies, would attack the Brotherhood instead of trying to make an alliance.

When he voiced this, Arthur shook his head.

‘It doesn’t always work like that.’

Caleb wondered how his friend knew so much about war.

It took them a little over a month to get to where they were going; coming from a sheltered life, Caleb saw firsthand the hardships of the wastelands. They passed by other towns, which either bowed to the Legion or were taken by force. Caleb witnessed a changing landscape, from the rolling fields of his homelands to the rugged, arid wastes of their eventual destination.

They saw the flags first of all: standards of red emblazoned with gold bulls, appearing at even intervals on either side of the paved road along which the captures trudge. 

Caleb thought he could hear the wind, a plaintive sound howling through the dusty midafternoon. The sound filled him with unease; he felt farther from home than ever.

And then came the crucified: men and women, some scarcely much more than children, strung up by the roadside. He had the sickening realization that what he had taken for the wind was instead their agonized moans, a low, gruesome harmony that never seemed to stop.

Arthur looked into the faces of every one of them, so Caleb did too.

He hadn’t been able to look at the people crucified in his settlement, the familiar faces too painful — too real — to see. He did with these strangers what he couldn’t with his own people: he looked them each straight in the eye, and prayed silently for mercy.

The walk along that road felt like the longest part of the journey yet, and by the end of it Caleb was raw. Secretly, out of sight of the legionaries escorting their group, Arthur grabbed his hand and held it tight.

Arthur was still holding his hand when they came in view of the city — of the place the Legion had claimed for their capital.

_Flagstaff._

The name meant nothing to him, emblazoned as it was on signs overhead as they marched down the blacktop. He heard one of the boys whisper the word ‘Arizona’, which was familiar to him at least. They had gone far to the west, almost as far as the coast.

As they filed into the city through an opening in the odd spiked wooden barrier surrounding it, he felt Arthur’s hand slip from his.

It took a while for him to realize that his friend was shaking; a moment later he realized he was, too.

* * *

They were led in small groups to a building that smelled of rubbing alcohol and blood. Caleb didn’t recognize it right away, but as they were shown to seats in a long corridor, Arthur leaned close and told him that they were in some sort of clinic. 

Caleb’s hands had gone clammy. He felt the one clinging to Arthur’s slip free only for Arthur to grab it again, squeezing it tightly.

‘What’s wrong?’ Arthur whispered, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘They’re just gonna look at us and make sure we don’t have nits and stuff.’

That was all right for _him_ to say; there was nothing wrong with him, nothing for him to be afraid of. All at once Caleb felt more scared than he had in all of this, more scared even than when the Legion had stormed his town, setting fire to the building he had called home. 

‘I can’t,’ he mumbled.

He felt Arthur’s hand squeeze his again, felt Arthur’s shoulder bump into his as he leaned close. Caleb could feel tears rolling down his cheeks, no matter how hard he tried to stop them.

‘I can’t,’ he said again. ‘Please don’t let them.’

When it was Caleb’s turn, he was trembling so badly the legionary in the waiting area had to haul him to his feet. The other boys were watching — were talking about him, were staring. When he stumbled and Arthur rushed to help him, the legionary turned and swung the back of his hand against Caleb’s face in a blow so hard that it dazed him.

‘What’s going on out here?’

The doctor — for he could be mistaken for nothing else, with the stethoscope hanging from his neck and the white coat draped about his shoulders — stood in the doorway, looking irritated. He took in the sight of the two boys, of the legionary yanking at Caleb’s arm, and promptly snatched Caleb from his grasp.

‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Come along now. Both of you.’

Caleb remembered a time when the worst thing about doctors had been their cold hands. Everything about this doctor’s office was cold: cold floor tiles, cold instruments, cold fluorescent lights blazing overhead. When the doctor closed the door behind them, however, clicking the lock tightly shut, his expression had been one of warmth.

‘It’s okay now, boys,’ he had said. ‘I know you’re scared. Sometimes it’s a little easier if you know you’re not alone, right?’

Hesitantly, Caleb nodded. With the hand not still clutching Arthur’s, he lifted it and scrubbed the tears from his cheeks.

‘Why don’t you take a seat right over there?’ the doctor said to Arthur, pointing to the chair in the corner.

Arthur looked to Caleb first of all; it was only when Caleb nodded that he finally let go of his hand and moved across the room, sitting down. He perched himself warily at the edge of it, as if ready to spring up at a moment’s notice.

‘Good,’ the doctor said. ‘What are your names?’

‘Arthur.’

‘Caleb,’ Caleb said, with a sniffle.

‘Okay, Caleb,’ the doctor said, turning away toward his desk. ‘My name is Doctor Lewis. Why don’t you strip down to your underwear and take a seat?’

‘I can’t,’ Caleb said, mumbling the words into his chin.

Doctor Lewis turned to him, frowning. In the corner of the room, Caleb could see Arthur getting ready to spring in and help if needed.

‘What was that, young man?’

Caleb swallowed. He stared down at the tiled floor and tried to imagine he was speaking to one of the Brotherhood officers and not a member of Caesar’s Legion.

‘I can’t do it, sir,’ he said, a little stronger this time.

The doctor showed endless patience as he moved closer to Caleb and knelt down in front of him until he was at the boy’s level. They didn’t know that he was used to this — used to children being terrified, to having to counteract the brutality of the Legion with an attempt at bedside manner. Still, Caleb found he didn’t flinch away as the doctor placed a hand on his shoulder and looked at him levelly, the first person to treat him like a little boy in weeks.

‘It’s okay,’ the doctor said. ‘You can talk to me.’

So Caleb did; he leaned close and whispered it all into the doctor’s ear, hands balled into fists at his sides all the while. When he was done, the doctor nodded resolutely and stood up, marking something off on a chart on his desk.

‘Okay then,’ Doctor Lewis said. ‘I still need to get a look at you though, you understand? If you’re sick, I need to take care of it now before you spread it to the other kids.’

Wordlessly, Caleb nodded. He carefully wriggled out of his shirt and his pants and the doctor looked him over, checking his hair first, then measuring his heart rate. Once he had given Caleb a once-over he told him to get dressed, then did the same for Arthur.

Before the boys could go, he stopped Caleb and gave him a reassuring smile.

‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ he said.

After all the scary people they had met — legionaries, slavers on the road, even raiders high off their heads on chems — Caleb felt like he could trust this kindly man, this doctor he had only just met.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured, and once the door was unlocked he and Arthur filed out of the room.

* * *

They were led with the other boys to a building, low and square and nondescript. A sign hung above the entrance, damaged and worn with age, the words ‘Elementary School’ barely legible on its surface.

A boy of maybe eleven or so greeted them at the entrance. He exchanged words with the slavemaster for a while, holding himself as though he were much older. When the conversation finished, he swung the door open and gestured for them all to file inside.

The school was probably once a lively place, full of colorful posters and the sound of children’s voices. The walls were bare now, and the hallways were eerily quiet. Caleb was afraid to step too loudly in case he should draw attention to himself.

They were brought to a room filled with bunk beds, the mattresses thin and uninviting. A number of the beds had been left unmade with thin blankets left neatly folded at the bottom.

‘Pick a bed,’ the boy who led them in said, ‘and change into the clothes set out for you. Meet out front when you’re done.’

As soon as he was gone, the room erupted into chaos. Boys elbowed each other out of the way, running headlong to find the best spot. For a moment it was like being a child again — a real child, carefree — until Caleb realized that they were starting to get violent. He hung back with Arthur and watched, motionless, as two boys gave each other bloody noses over the bottom bunk in the corner.

Together, he and Arthur eventually made their cautious way through the room toward the far edge, finding a pair of bunk beds free and uncontested. Arthur let him pick; Caleb went for the one on top.

He was halfway up the ladder when he felt someone yank at the back of his shirt with such force that his foot slipped on the rung and he fell, hitting his chin off the metal along the way.

‘That’s _my_ bunk,’ a voice said.

The boy standing behind him was a couple of years older at least, with droopy eyes and red cheeks. Caleb stared at him blankly for a moment, lost for words. When he moved to step out of the way, Arthur laid a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ he said. ‘It’s yours.’

The boy’s cheeks only reddened further at this. Caleb’s first instinct was to run, but Arthur’s hand was still there on his shoulder. It squeezed, gently, and Caleb tried to be as calm as his friend was, tried to seem as confident.

‘Yeah,’ he replied, trying to steady the waver in his voice. 

Caleb had been in enough fights in his life to know where this was headed, even before the kid drew his hand back to punch him. He flinched, scrunching his eyes closed in anticipation of the hot burst of pain — but it never came. When he opened his eyes again, Arthur had the boy’s wrist in a vice grip, twisting it sharply.

‘This bed belongs to my friend,’ Arthur said. ‘You got a problem with that?’

The boy shook his head; there was anger in his eyes, but when Arthur released his hold on him he merely walked away, mumbling to himself.

Caleb watched Arthur uncertainly. For a moment, he had seemed much older than his nine years — it had been unsettling to witness. When Arthur looked back to him he had a weary smile on his lips, paper-thin but genuine.

‘You okay?’ he asked, pointing at Caleb’s face.

Caleb touched his fingers to his chin. His skin felt hot and sore, but he didn’t think he was bleeding. He nodded his head.

‘Guess we better get ready,’ he said.

The new clothes they were given were the same sort as the legionaries that escorted them across the wastes: tunics of red, clean but well-worn. Caleb’s was too big for him; it hung loose about his slender shoulders and made him look even younger. Arthur’s fit just right.

Outside, they were met by the boy who had led them into the dormitory. He surveyed them impassively, nodding thoughtfully to himself as he looked them each over. Caleb couldn’t help but imagine he saw a look of disapproval on the boy’s face as his glance passed over him.

‘Very good,’ the boy says. ‘Now we’ll see how you can handle yourselves in a fight.’

* * *

Caleb crawled into bed well after nightfall, a bundle of aching limbs and bloody knuckles.

There were others who hadn’t been so quick to adapt. Their beds had been empty when he had passed them.

He curled up with his pillow in his arms, clinging tightly to it. When he was sure nobody else was awake to hear, he buried his face in it and cried until his throat was raw.

A hand gently rested on his shoulder, jostling him slightly. When he looked up it was Arthur, his face barely readable in the moonlight streaming through the windows. Without a word, he crawled into Caleb’s bunk.

They stayed like that for a long while, pressed close to one another in silence, until Caleb couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.


	4. Eleven

Caleb missed the summer; missed the warmth of the sun. Legionaries were given the same tunic day in and day out, come rain or shine, and this was already shaping up to be a brutal winter.

He blew into his hands and rubbed them together, stepping about from one foot to the other as he looked for his friend.

He wasn’t supposed to be there — was supposed to be with all the other recruits, catching up on sleep before a long day of training. Instead he found himself out behind the schoolhouse, turning the snow into sludge underfoot.

‘Varius.’

That was what they had taken to calling him. _Versatile_ , in the tongue of the Legion. It meant that what he lacked in strength, he made up for in skill and cunning, in dexterity and speed.

Arthur approached him briskly, a bundle tucked under his arm.

‘You got it?’ Caleb asked, and when the other boy nodded, he picked up the storm lamp by his feet and set off. They fell easily into stride with one another, silently walking through the back streets.

They knew they were undertaking a huge risk — knew that a lashing would be the least severe punishment they could expect if they were caught.

Caleb didn’t care, just as he knew his friend didn’t.

The girls of the Legion — those still too young to serve the officers, yet old enough to work — were housed in a little building near the women’s quarters. The place was unguarded, secured only with a locked door. Caleb knew that there was a window in the back with a busted mechanism that would open all too easily for anyone who knew to try it.

This had all been Arthur’s idea, of course, but he liked to take some of the credit, too. After all, the wine had been his suggestion; what better way to impress the girls?

The window slid up with a little creak of protest that seemed to pierce through the stillness of the night. Caleb looked around furtively, waiting for the telltale stomp of legionary boots. When he was sure that nobody was coming, he pushed the window open the rest of the way and beckoned Arthur inside.

The girls’ dormitory was much smaller than their own, although he supposed it made sense: the boys vastly outnumbered them. The room they had let themselves into — a small washroom at the rear of the old store that made up their lodgings — was dark, smelling badly of mold.

From there it was simply a matter of tiptoeing out of the room and up the stairs to the apartments above.

Aurelia and Julia were apart from the others, as they had expected, sharing a cot. Caleb recognized the glint of Aurelia’s blonde hair immediately — it was what she had been named for. With a grin at Arthur, he made his way silently around the roomful of the slumbering girls until he reached the foot of their bed.

Arthur was the one who woke them up; he laid a hand on Aurelia’s shoulder and touched a finger to his lips once her eyes opened, softly hushing her. She seemed annoyed at first, but when she realized they had brought a gift she changed her tune. Once Julia was awake they slipped out of bed and followed the boys out of the room.

‘Where are you taking us?’ Julia asked once they were outside, amid a little burst of breathless giggles. Aurelia clapped a hand over her mouth and shushed her.

‘You’ll see,’ Arthur said.

It had been easier to make their way through the streets unnoticed without the girls in tow, but they made it in the end after a few too many close shaves. Their destination was an access grate by the boys’ dormitory, leading down to the sewers. The girls were reluctant at first when they realized where they were being taken, but Caleb assured them the privacy was worth it. Nobody would think to look for them down there.

‘You think this place leads out of Flagstaff?’ Aurelia asked, looking about as Caleb lit up his lamp with a match.

It was a side-chamber off the main sewer, gracefully far from whatever nasty smells might have greeted them beyond. Caleb and Arthur had yet to venture very far into the tunnels — they were afraid of what they might find lurking in the darkness.

‘Probably,’ Arthur said with a shrug. His voice was already beginning to break with the onset of puberty, but Caleb couldn’t help noticing that he made a point of deepening it whenever Aurelia was around.

‘How’d you find it?’ Julia asked. She sidled up closer to Caleb, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘I didn’t even know it was down here.’

‘There’s lots of secrets around the city,’ Caleb said. ‘You just gotta look for them.’

They cracked open the wine and drank straight from the bottle. To Caleb’s tongue, it was disgusting — bitter and tangy, like bad fruit — but he kept it from showing on his face as he took a swig of it. When he passed the bottle to Julia she gave him a little smile.

Aurelia barely seemed interested in the wine when offered the bottle; she took the tiniest of sips before wandering away from the group, her blue eyes keenly taking everything in. When she got to the opening past which the sewers lay, she pressed up against the wall and peeped around the edge of it, squinting into the darkness.

‘So the Legion doesn’t know about this place?’ she asked. Her voice echoed a little down the tunnels beyond her.

Caleb watched Arthur pace over to her; watched him step up close and grab her hand, tugging at it. With some reluctance, she allowed herself to be led back to stay with the others.

‘I don’t think so,’ Arthur said. ‘If they did, there’s no way it’d still be open like this.’

‘You think there’s ghouls down here?’ Julia asked fearfully.

The group fell into silence, as if pricking their ears for the sounds of life down in the tunnels with them. Slowly, a low, plaintive moan picked up, like the wail of a tortured soul. Every instinct in Caleb screamed to get away, to go back up to the street and return to the scratchy blanket and lumpy mattress that made up his bed, but he forced himself to stay.

‘The wind,’ Arthur said. ‘Just the wind.’

He didn’t sound very confident.

* * *

A week later, Caleb heard the news — that one of the girls had escaped the night before, without a trace. When word got to the boys that it was Aurelia, Arthur was adamant that they check the sewers. Where else would she have gone, after all?

Legion patrols were doubled the following night, so they almost didn’t get their chance. Men they might evade, but the mongrels accompanying them were out for blood, ready to lash out at anyone straying where they shouldn’t have been.

By grace of Arthur’s surefootedness — he seemed to know the city better than the Legion themselves — they made their way once more back to the sewers, this time decidedly more somber than the last.

The place was empty, as Caleb had expected. No shreds of Aurelia’s dress to betray her presence, no strands of golden hair glimmering by the light of their lamps. If it weren’t for the empty wine bottle on the floor, there might have been no trace of anyone having been there.

‘Varius,’ Arthur said.

He was pointing downwards; Caleb turned the light of his lamp toward the ground, the glow picking up footprints in the dust. There was a network of them, moving this way and that about the room from their escapades a week earlier, including a few sets leading toward the entrance to the tunnels.

He caught Arthur’s meaning immediately.

They followed a fresh set of footprints, small and delicate, out of the room and into the tunnels. At the first fork Caleb could see that she had dallied, pacing this way and that, before deciding eventually on the left path.

He began to lose track of time as they walked along her trail, venturing deeper and deeper into the sewers. The sound of trickling water, of the wind moaning through the tunnel, became nothing more than a chorus, an accompaniment to the sound of his pulse gushing in his ears and two sets of feet scuffing across concrete.

They were at another fork in the path when Arthur’s lamp began to flicker, steadily dying out. Caleb heard him swear, saw him shake the lamp futilely; soon it vanished entirely, leaving only Caleb’s to light their way.

‘We should turn back,’ he said.

‘No.’

There was something strange to Arthur’s voice — something that plucked at the strings of Caleb’s heart. When he turned to Arthur, lifting the lamp to look into his face, he could see dark circle’s ringing his friend’s eyes.

‘Listen to me,’ Caleb said. ‘She got a head start on us — we’ll never catch up.’

‘No,’ Arthur said again. ‘She’s not as fast as we are. She doesn’t know where we’re going. If we just keep it up, maybe we’ll—’

‘ _Arthur._ ’

Caleb knew he hadn’t heard that name aloud in a long time, not since he had been given his new one: Regulus, _little king_ , a mockery of his family’s legacy. The sound of it, uttered aloud, seemed to snap something within his friend. He saw Arthur’s eyes go wide, saw him swallow hard.

‘She’s _gone_ ,’ Caleb said. ‘She got away, okay? She’s gone.’

They made their way back in silence; by the time they emerged from the sewers, the pitch black of the sky was already starting to fade with the onset of the dawn.

Caleb didn’t tell his friend his worries: that Aurelia had gotten lost, that she had stumbled upon ghouls after all. Whatever her fate, whether she got away or not, they would never know.

He hoped — really, really hoped — that she had gotten away after all.


	5. II

Varius doesn’t know how long he’s been wandering; between the blood loss, the dehydration and the haze of all the chems he’s been self-medicating with, he’s not entirely sure what time of day it is.

He rests when he can, finding shelter from the sun in the shade of trees, with every expectation that he once he lays his head down he won’t get back up.

It feels like a small miracle every time he opens his eyes again, every time he manages to drag himself to his feet and resume his relentless trek.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, not exactly — south-west is his best bet for finding civilization, better still if he finds his way into Legion territory. With his injuries hastily-stitched using scavenged thread, he needs to find a doctor, and soon. Cleaning the wounds out using makeshift salve from flora foraged from the wastes only goes so far, and he knows the infection is spreading.

He wonders at times if he should have turned himself in to the Brotherhood. They would have interrogated him, of course, and tortured him when more diplomatic means failed to produce results, but at least they would have tended to his wounds first.

It’s ironic, really; his enemy might have been his best chance at survival.

It takes him a while to realize that he’s not walking any more, that he’s on his knees. His head is swimming, his limbs heavy — he’s not sure if it’s the Med-X wearing off or the dehydration. He can only remedy one of those problems, so he digs around in his pack for the supplies he scavenged from the battlefield and takes a hit of the painkiller, closing his eyes and sinking to the ground.

He sleeps; he _thinks_ he sleeps. The clouds pass overhead in time lapse, the sky turning from blue to purple to black. He registers cold somewhere in his daze, but he barely has the strength to move, let alone try to warm himself up.

He’s in borrowed clothes, although he doesn’t think the corpse he yanked them off of will mind; he had been a civilian, dragged into the midst of the fighting, his clothes in a sorry state but large enough at least to fit Varius’s frame. They smell musty and old as he curls into them, with a hint of the coppery tang of blood. It brings to mind the smells of the encampment — of leather, of metal, of sweat.

He dreams that he’s back there, training, but instead of Plenus instructing him, it’s Arthur. They spar together, and Arthur’s angry because he’s sloppy and letting too many blows through his guard, but then he’s laughing and Varius is laughing too, and they’re kids again, running through fields of wheat.

He opens his eyes to find the stars spinning out overhead, dizzying and vast. All at once he rolls onto all fours and vomits, purging what little food and water there is in his body. He heaves until there’s nothing left, then he heaves some more. His stomach roils until he thinks he can’t take it any more and then finally, thank Caesar, it stops.

When he’s strong enough, he lifts his head. There are lights up ahead and he thinks it might be the stronghold, but it seems too close. He cradles his face in his hands, shaking his head feverishly — has he been going in circles all this time?

He rises to his feet, ignoring the wave of nausea, of vertigo. He turns on his heel, looking frantically around, and when his eyes land on the lights once more he keeps going until— 

_There._

He can see the haze of light on the horizon, farther away — a distant glow at the edge of the world. _That’s the stronghold._ It has to be.

He doesn’t question what those other lights must be, close enough to touch; he just gathers up his belongings and sets off toward them, feeling stronger than he has in days.


	6. Sixteen

Ripe with sweat and covered in shallow cuts and purpling bruises, Caleb and Arthur paraded through Flagstaff, the thrill of victory singing in their veins.

They had been part of a small squad, sent to attack a township to the south that had refused to bow to Caesar. Caleb had anticipated more resistance; the civilians were weak. They had claimed that the NCR would protect them, that the Legion would be met in retribution if they attacked.

Their words had done little to faze the legionaries and they had cut down anyone who stood against them, claiming those who had survived as captures.

For one moment, for one fleeting moment, Varius had hesitated after he had drawn his machete. He had seen the faces of the men and women who stood before them, weapons raised. He had heard the cry of a child inside a home, followed by frantic murmurs from its mother, intended to soothe, to silence.

He had found himself surrounded by the world of these people — the enemy, but people no less — and he had wondered what would have happened if he had chosen to help them, defying his orders.

But then Arthur had rushed ahead, striking wildly at his targets, some barely older than they were, and Caleb had found himself swept up in the heat of battle.

The decanus in charge of the operation had been impressed; he had seen their prowess, had somehow missed Caleb’s hesitation. _You will go far,_ he had said, and even Caleb had felt drunk with triumph, with pride.

Bathed and changed out of their battle gear, they headed for the mess hall, following their comrades.

They had long since moved out of the boys’ lodgings, considered men now; although still young, Arthur had the broadness and muscle of many of their older comrades, and Varius had shot up a head taller than many of their peers. Wherever they went, the other legionaries would quip about them — so different in appearance and temperament, yet joined at the hip.

Tonight seemed to be no different, though as the officers brought in girls to tempt them along with the other members of their squad, Varius could see his friend’s gaze wandering.

It was a novelty to the Legion, this: such a change from the austerity of the previous Caesar who had seen vice as the route to the downfall of man. There were those who had claimed it to be sacrilege, who had denounced the new Caesar and his ways; they had hung for weeks from the crosses lining the streets of Flagstaff, a warning to anyone who might incite further rebellion.

‘Enjoy yourselves,’ their decanus said, setting a bottle of wine down on the table in front of them. ‘Just make sure you’re well enough for training come sunrise.’

Caleb picked up the bottle, generously filling their cups and pushing Arthur’s towards him as he lifted his own.

‘True to Caesar,’ he said, tipping his cup back.

He could tell his friend was distracted: from the way he mumbled his response to the way his glance settled across the room as he lifted his drink to his lips. When Caleb followed the line of Arthur’s eye he spotted her immediately — the girl with long, black hair, falling in soft curls about her tanned shoulders. She was seated with another group of legionaries, laughing at their undoubtedly feeble attempts at jokes, but her eyes would flicker from time to time over in their direction, landing on Arthur.

‘She’s pretty,’ Caleb said, staring down into his wine.

‘I suppose,’ Arthur said. ‘She knows it, though.’

At this, Caleb couldn’t help but laugh. How many girls had Arthur pined for over the years? How many had he longed for, coveting their beauty? Caleb had never thought _modesty_ to be his friend’s favored trait.

Caleb cradled his drink, taking in his friend’s words. He would have loved nothing more than to get pleasantly tipsy with Arthur, to while away the hours in their corner of the mess hall before retiring for an early night, but every time he looked at Arthur, the other legionary’s eyes were there on the girl across the room.

It was going to be like this all night.

With a beleaguered sigh, Varius drained the last of his drink — for courage, if nothing else — and pushed himself up from his seat, striding across the room before Arthur could stop him.

The girl barely spared him a glance when he approached; his height and freckled skin set him apart from the others, but he knew he was nothing special to look at. It wasn’t about him, though, and he thought of what Arthur would do if he were in his shoes instead.

‘These boys aren’t worth your time,’ he said, leaning close to her ear. ‘How about a man’s company?’

Her laugh cut him to the bone: her expression was one of mocking as she recoiled from him, glancing him over in disgust.

‘What, you?’ she said, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. ‘Isn’t it past your bedtime?’

It wasn’t the first time he had heard such venom from a woman’s lips; he doubted it would be the last. As much as it stung, he never let it show as he smirked and used his chin to gesture to Arthur, where his friend sat stubbornly trying not to look in their direction.

‘You’re not my type,’ he said, scornfully. ‘Regulus over there isn’t quite so fussy.’

She put on a good show of reluctance, although she followed him readily enough as he strode back to Arthur’s side. He leaned down, grabbing the wine bottle in one hand and his cup in the other, and spoke softly into his friend’s ear.

‘Thank me later,’ he said.

He didn’t wait for Arthur’s response; didn’t wait to see the girl take her seat by Arthur’s side. There was an empty table by the edge of the room which would suit him and his bottle of wine just fine.

* * *

The wine was poor quality, but it did its trick; most of the way into it Caleb’s head was swimming, his limbs pleasantly numb as he sat, alone, surveying the room.

One by one, girls had paired off with the members of their squad. Arthur seemed to have held off until now, bringing his companion to sit in on a game of poker with some of the officers. If Arthur wasn’t careful, he might just lose her to the wandering hands of one of the older men.

That seemed unlikely, of course — what Arthur wanted, he tended to get.

Caleb felt sick. It gnawed at his stomach, turning it into knots. He told himself it was the wine and pushed the bottle aside before thinking better of it and pulling it back, tipping the last of it into his cup.

There were a few girls left: the less desirable ones who — like him — had been left to their own devices. He knew however that unlike him, even they would soon find themselves paired up when the night’s festivities ended.

One of the officers tottered over to a blonde with round cheeks turned red with wine, slinging an arm lecherously around her waist and burying his face in her neck. She gave a nervous titter, unable to stop him as he steered her off toward the exit.

‘Hey, Varius!’ one of the officers shouted from the poker table. He had a girl in his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck. ‘If you ask nicely, maybe Regulus will share.’

Laughter erupted from the remaining legionaries; cheeks burning, Varius downed the last of his wine and stood up, marching for the door.

He could hear Arthur calling his name, could hear his companion noisily protesting, not even bothering to hide her displeasure. He ignored them both.

The stars spun out above him as he trudged into the street. It was chilly by then, with no clouds to keep in the day’s heat; he could feel it seeping through his tunic, cutting at the bare skin of his arms and legs. The threadbare bedding in his lodgings would do little to fend off the cold.

A warm body next to him might have helped: arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs twined through his own. 

_What a thought._ For all the times he had slipped into Arthur’s bed or Arthur into his, he had never been held that way, had never touched someone _like that._ He had wanted to, of course; there had been those who had caught his eye, even a few who had returned it, but he knew he couldn’t. Not as long as he wore the Legion’s red on his back.

Sometimes he felt so lonely his whole body ached.

He pushed the thought from his mind as he opened the door to the barracks and headed for the quarters he shared with the other legionaries.

He drifted off long before Arthur returned; the sound of his friend drunkenly stumbling in roused him, but he might have gone readily back to sleep had he not heard a girl’s hushed laughter. Together, the two of them navigated their way around the beds, whispering softly to one another, stifling laughter from time to time.

Arthur’s bed was a few feet away, against the wall. Caleb heard the springs squeak with the weight of someone climbing into it, then a thud and a muffled _Ow_. There was some more laughter, then more squeaking from the springs, until things seemed finally, blissfully, to quieten down.

Caleb turned over, putting his back to his friend’s cot. He tried to ignore the twinge of jealousy — he had facilitated this, after all — and screwed his eyes shut.

He could hear them whispering softly, but not softly enough. Could hear her coaxing, the rustle of fabric that followed. When Arthur gave a little gasp of pleasure, Caleb grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his head, pressing it down on his ears.

He didn’t sleep until long after the girl had left, and the room had fallen once more into silence.


	7. Twenty-One

Arthur had been distracted all evening. Had Caleb been more naive, he might have thought it to do with his recent promotion — but he knew better than that.

All Arthur ever seemed to talk about any more was _her_ : Livia this, Livia that. It had been good at first to see his friend so happy, but Caleb’s pleasure had quickly begun to sour.

It reminded him of the night of festivities, after their victory against the township that had refused to surrender to Caesar. Five years had passed since that night, yet he still thought of it sometimes. Still remembered the dismay that had filled him that night as he had tried so desperately to blot out the sounds from the cot across from his own.

He cleared his throat and saw Arthur flinch beside him. They had both been away in their own worlds, miles apart.

‘Caravan?’ he suggested.

They had been drinking and talking for the better part of the evening, until conversation had dried up. Maybe some friendly competition would keep them from retreating too deeply into their respective thoughts.

Arthur pushed up from his seat and gathered their cards together, laying Caleb’s deck in front of him and shuffling through his own as he sat down once more.

Even Arthur’s hopelessness at the game wasn’t enough to dislodge the gloom that had settled over Caleb. He normally took pleasure in hustling caps and shining silver denarii out of his friend, but tonight the victory felt hollow.

A knock came at the door, and for a moment it was almost a welcome distraction — until it dawned on Caleb that a visitor at such a late hour was rarely a good thing.

Arthur’s glance was still trained on the cards in his hand, as though he hadn’t heard the sound. Caleb nudged his companion in the shoulder, pointing to the door.

‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’ he said.

Arthur scowled at him. He handled defeat poorly, even when he wasn’t being thrashed as thoroughly as he was that night.

‘You get it.’

With a jaded sigh, Caleb stood and crossed the room. He suspected Arthur was letting his promotion go to his head, not that he would ever say such a thing in earshot. 

When he opened the door, there was a girl outside: petite and willowy, with flame red hair. First, he spotted the tray she carried in her hands, then his gaze took in her attire. She was perfectly groomed, perfumed with something obnoxiously sweet, and her lace dress looked as if it had never seen a speck of dirt in the years since its seams had been meticulously stitched together.

Through the delicate pattern of the white lace, he could see the pink of her nipples showing through. He promptly lifted his glance back up to her face, stepping back and pulling the door with him so that Arthur could look.

‘Regulus,’ he said. ‘Did you send for someone?’

His heart sank when Arthur’s eyes landed on her. It was like watching someone see the sunrise for the first time after years of darkness; it was as though he had forgotten that anything else existed in the world as he rose to his feet, and Caleb knew in an instant who the girl was, even before Arthur ever uttered her name.

* * *

Caleb had to admit — however grudgingly it might have been — that Livia was one of the lovelier girls he had seen in Flagstaff. Beyond the pretty face, the sweet giggles and fluttering eyelashes, she had a sort of quiet cunning.

He wasn’t sure he liked her; he definitely didn’t trust her.

He had never met a Legion slave with such an understanding of Caravan, such a quick grasp of the seemingly convoluted rules. He hoped that Arthur didn’t underestimate her as he had.

Livia helped Arthur gather up his deck and Arthur refilled each of their cups. He moved with an ease Caleb hadn’t seen in his friend in quite a while, and for all the jealousy he felt — the little twinges of longing that kept eating away at the edges of him — he could, at least, be pleased that Arthur seemed happy.

He watched Arthur move, smiling thoughtfully to himself. They had a good thing, the two of them; they looked out for each other. He didn’t need to ruin that.

The hairs began to prickle at the back of his neck. He thought it was the wine at first, but at the corner of his vision he could see Livia watching him, her eyes narrowed. All at once he felt as though he were overstaying his welcome.

He made his excuses and Arthur asked him to stay, but he knew it was half-hearted. With Livia hovering nearby, watching him warily, it had only been a matter of time before their little gathering became a party of two.

‘Big day tomorrow,’ he reminded his friend as he hesitated by the door. He gave a sloppy salute, made worse by the wine in his veins, and saw himself out.

Would this be like that girl years earlier, who had barely spared Arthur a glance after their night together? Would Arthur pine for Livia as he had for her? Caleb wasn’t so sure; he hadn’t missed the looks that has passed between them all night, the glances that had lingered just a little too long. For all that Arthur might be oblivious, Livia seemed like the sort of woman who knew how to get what she wanted.

He supposed he had to respect her for that.

He ambled through the quarters, turning a blind eye as he passed each door. He had learned a lot about the proclivities of certain officers, some more galling than others, but he didn’t think anything could shock him any more.

No, that wasn’t true — it still surprised him that they had it in them to fall in love.


	8. Twenty-Two

Caleb stretched his arms out over his head, surveying the cards on the table in front of him. He had been doing well, until Livia had joined in on Arthur’s side; he still rued the day she had ever taught his friend how to play.

It had been fun hustling Arthur, for a little while. Caravan was one of the few things in which Caleb had had an edge over him.

He could see his friend’s decanus armor sitting neatly folded on the floor by the bed, where furs lay tangled up with one of Livia’s shawls. The space had slowly begun to take on more and more of her personal touches; her presence was like some sort of wildflower, beautiful but invasive.

‘ _I_ am going to sleep,’ Livia said. At the edge of his vision, Caleb could see her slip her arms around Arthur’s shoulders, resting her chest against his back where he sat. ‘You two have fun.’

‘Mm,’ Arthur said, barely looking up. As was so often the case, his mind was too intent on the task at hand to pay heed to much else.

‘Goodnight, Varius,’ Livia said, with a little wave in his direction. ‘Don’t keep him up too late.’

They played mostly in silence after she had slipped into bed. She tended to be irritable when she was woken up, so it served them both not to disturb her.

‘You’re getting too good at this,’ Caleb murmured, gathering up his cards at the end.

He had lost — resoundingly. He suspected that even without Livia’s meddling, it would have been a close game.

‘Now now, Varius,’ Arthur said, leaning back in his seat. ‘I never thought you for a sore loser.’

They tidied everything: the cards, the empty wine bottles, the cups sitting haphazardly around. Caleb noticed for the first time the folded correspondence at the corner of the desk, marked with the seal of the Legion. His eyes kept gravitating towards it, his fingers twitching as if to reach out and grab it.

‘Will we be here much longer?’ he asked, innocently.

‘Varius.’

Arthur’s voice commanded his gaze upward. He met his friend’s eyes and found them full of reproach.

‘We’ve known each other too many years,’ Arthur said. ‘Ask the question you _really_ want answered.’

Caleb felt his cheeks heat under his Arthur’s stare.

There were days when he felt as though they were the same companions they had always been, the two boys who had clung to one another when fear might otherwise have broken them; there were others when it was difficult not to look at Arthur and see Regulus, the decanus who would surely rise through the ranks of the Legion someday.

‘You’ve got new orders,’ Caleb ventured. He gestured to the letter at the edge of the desk, looking back to Arthur. ‘Are moving on the Brotherhood yet?’

Arthur gave a grunt. Caleb couldn’t be sure if it was irritation directed at him, or at the contents of the letter. His temper was shorter these days, now that he had a contubernium under his command.

‘Not yet,’ Arthur muttered darkly. He reached across Caleb to grab the letter, their arms brushing along the way. ‘The problem now is keeping the men focused.’

He opened the letter and gave its contents a cursory glance, as if expecting them to have changed since the last time he looked at it. With a sigh, he handed the letter over.

Caleb accepted it tentatively and pored over the words written in a neat, practiced hand. It was in Latin, as was most of the correspondence from Flagstaff; it detailed unfavorable conditions for war, mostly superstitious nonsense.

Caleb shook his head. He could understand Arthur’s frustration.

‘At least you have us,’ he said, nodding his head to where Livia lay sleeping. ‘Although I wonder how many games of Caravan a man can play before losing his mind.’

Arthur took the letter back and set it aside in its original spot.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I think we’re getting close.’

Caleb watched his friend sink into his seat and lift his hands to cover his face, muffling a weary sigh. The changes in him since his promotion had been subtle, though not hard to miss for anyone who spent as much time together as they did. He had seen Arthur lose his temper with Livia on more than one occasion, which he would never have thought possible before they left Flagstaff.

‘I’ll let you get some rest,’ Caleb said, resting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

He tried to ignore the urge to work his fingers across his friend’s muscles, to soothe the tension from them as he had seen Livia do so often.

He could still remember that night, weeks earlier, when she had tried to tempt them both into bed. It had been boredom on her part — she treated him with disdain more than anything else in all the time they had known each other. Yet he had almost let Livia lead him by the hand to the bundle of furs in the corner, and might have gone ahead with it had Arthur not firmly put a hand to her chest and told her it was time for Caleb to leave.

He swallowed, hard. His hand was still on Arthur’s shoulder, his fingertips skirting beneath the neck of his tunic. His friend hadn’t noticed, his hands still scrubbing his face. Didn’t notice as Caleb’s glance went to his throat, to the slight stirring of his pulse beneath the skin there.

‘Vale,’ he said, slipping his hand away and letting it hang by his side.

Arthur barely stirred as Caleb got up from his chair and moved around him, heading for the exit.

He stopped at the threshold, glancing back at his friend where he still sat. His hands had fallen from his face and he now stared at the wall of the tent ahead of him, eyes blank and unseeing as he lost himself in his head.

Caleb sighed and turned away, brushing through the flap of the tent. The legionaries had their own lodgings all together, separate from the officers; from here he could see no lights shining through the canvas, which meant he was probably the last to turn in, as was usually the case whenever the decks of cards came out in Arthur’s tent.

He stepped out onto the path, following the torches that lit the way. Their flames flickered and danced in the warm summer breeze, crackling merrily in the stillness of the night.


	9. III

It’s not a town; barely even a settlement. Just a string of homes along a stretch of road, but that road has to go somewhere.

There’s a doctor, too — her breath stinks of liquor and there’s a tremor in her hands as she examines him, but she has a better idea of what she’s doing than Varius did when he so haphazardly tended to his own wounds.

Fresh stitches, antibiotics, a shot from a stimpak. He eyes the painkillers she keeps stocked on the shelves in her clinic, this little makeshift spot in the corner of her kitchen, and when he counts out the caps for a few hits of Med-X she doesn’t tell him no.

She doesn’t have a bed for him to sleep on but there’s an inn, if it can even be called that: a rundown old home, with kids’ drawings pinned to the walls wherever they aren’t already covered in crayon.

He doesn’t complain when he’s led to a tiny little room in the attic, or when he finds the mattress covered in spots of mold. It’s the closest thing he’s had to luxury in days, and after a hit of Med-X he collapses onto it without bothering to shed his clothes, drifting off as soon as his head hits the pillow.

* * *

The bar is an old pre-war tavern, kept somehow pristine in the face of two centuries of decay. 

He rolls up to the door as soon as the sun is up and the occupants look him over, but they pay little heed to the wanderer in his rags. This is what he does — he blends in, he makes himself invisible. Even after losing the war, even after finding himself on death’s door and clawing his way back, he still has that.

They don’t talk about much of interest, just chatter about crops and livestock, and a couple crass jokes about the brahmin ranchers that live in the next town over. Varius keeps his ears pricked nonetheless as he hunches over his beer, and he soaks up everything they have to say like the most mundane detail is vital intelligence.

It’s not too far to the next settlement, he learns; there’s more people, and from the sounds of things maybe even a caravan he can tag along with.

He finishes his beer and leaves, attracting even less attention now than he did on his arrival.

Not far to the next town — half a day’s walk, maybe. He pays the innkeeper to let him fill up his canteen from her tap and she gives him some stale bread and a can of beans for the journey.

‘Watch where you go,’ she says, as he’s leaving. ‘Boys spotted them legionaries out by Old Cooper’s place. Be careful.’

He tips his head in thanks; throws an extra handful of caps her way. If she’s right, he won’t need to continue his hike much farther.

Old Cooper’s is an abandoned farmstead, he discovers — the brahmin and bighorners there are wild, all the timidity bred out of them by years of fending for themselves. He can see the ribs on the beasts, and they stir restlessly when he gets near so he gives them a wide berth. He’s got his machete hidden away in his pack, but injured as he is he doesn’t much like his chances against animals turned feral by hunger.

The track leads off to the north, in the direction of the next town, but he dallies by the roadside looking to the west. The terrain is uneven here, perfect for hiding away; any legionaries venturing out this far, avoiding civilization along the way, would be sure to head out there.

He weighs his options while he chews on the stale bread from the inn and washes it down with water. Once he’s had his fill, he takes another hit of Med-X and heads out west.

* * *

The encampment had been a thing of glory, once — wherever the Legion chose to set down, they would erect their barricades and pitch their tents, hoisting crosses to lofty heights to stand sentinel over the slaves and legionaries alike. He wonders how it is now: a heap of caved-in tents and scorched wood.

When he finds the legionaries, they’re just a ragtag bunch: two tents and a low fire, and a single pack brahmin between them. He counts three, maybe four from a distance; when he’s close enough to hear the grunts of the two training together by the fire, he revises his estimation to five.

Five men and one brahmin; his arrival makes it six.

They don’t spot him right away. They’ve got a good spot for keeping out of view of any stray Brotherhood patrols, but he uses the terrain to his advantage to get in on their flank. They jump to arms when they spot him, and he lifts his hands over his head as he slowly approaches.

‘Ave,’ he says. ‘True to Caesar.’

Even with his greeting, they’re distrustful — twitchy. Up close, he can see how young they are, barely old enough to sprout beards. He doesn’t spot any injuries, which makes him think they fled before they ever got a taste of the battle.

Deserters. Typical.

‘My name is Varius,’ he says. ‘I was under Plenus, later Rufus.’

The one who had been hidden from view within one of the tents steps out. This one is older, more seasoned; Varius sees blood on his armor, and a bandage covering half his face.

‘Varius,’ the legionary says. ‘I am Valens. I was under Regulus.’

He remembers the name — one of Arthur’s more trusted men. He lets his arms drop and trudges forward, clasping hands with the man, clapping a palm down on his shoulder.

‘What of Regulus?’ Varius says. ‘I didn’t see his body.’

Valens spits once they separate. There’s venom in his uninjured eye.

‘Captured,’ he says.

It’s as much as Varius had expected, although hearing it confirmed only worsens the blow. There will be no rescue mission, not with the Legion defeated so resoundingly by the Brotherhood. More than likely Caesar will hold off any further attacks until victory is assured.

‘And the tribals?’ he prompts, pushing forward. It won’t do to get lost in misery. ‘River?’

‘We do not know. I believe the order was given to fall back when the vertibirds came in, but it was impossible to make sense of everything in the chaos.’

Varius nods tersely. By all accounts, it was a failure — Caesar would rather his men not come back than return defeated.

He looks off into the distance, to where Flagstaff must be; he wonder what awaits them in the capital when they return.

They give him a tunic, and he’s grateful to be out of his rags. It’s ill-fitting — too small for his lanky frame — but it’s a welcome change nonetheless. With no armor, he feels like a poor imitation of a legionary, but slowly he’s able to shake off the wanderer’s persona and return to his former self.

When he returns to Flagstaff he will be hardened once more, and ready for whatever fate awaits him.

‘Will you eat?’ one of the legionaries says, offering a cut of salted meat.

Varius takes it gratefully, but even as he chews his eyes are still looking onward, plotting their route.

‘We should press on,’ he says. ‘We still have far to go to reach the capital.’

Wordlessly, they dismantle the camp and load up the brahmin. It’s unbranded, he notices — not one of the Legion’s beasts. Between them all it doesn’t take long to have things ready for departure, and when Valens spreads out a map, he and Varius work out a route together. With only six of them, they’ll have to try to avoid open conflict with the Legion’s numerous enemies, but there may yet be allies to be found along the way.

The others move on while he lags behind, taking one last glance toward the Brotherhood’s stronghold. It’s too far now to see, and in the daylight there’s no glow to pick it out on the horizon, but still he knows it’s there.

Arthur’s there, too — being tortured for information, probably. Varius knows he’ll die sooner than divulge any of the Legion’s secrets; the thought doesn’t make him feel any better.

He turns, wincing as the movement puts strain on his stitches. His hand goes reflexively for his pack, where he knows he’ll find his supply of Med-X. Hesitating, he opens it up and takes out the syringes, letting them drop to the ground. He won’t rely on them any more; he can’t.

He’ll do as he has done for years: he’ll endure, and survive.


End file.
